


when you move, I'm moved

by elegantwings



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Bathing/Washing, Blow Jobs, Consensual Mind Control, Dom/sub Undertones, Established Relationship, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Takes Care of Jaskier | Dandelion, Improper Use of Axii (The Witcher), Jaskier is a Brat, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Multiple Orgasms, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Overstimulation, PWP, as consensual as possible given the subject matter, but Jaskier understands what he's getting into, but make it romantic, tagging just in case, the thinnest veneer of a plot, very very light
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-02
Updated: 2020-09-02
Packaged: 2021-03-07 01:48:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,217
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26258941
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elegantwings/pseuds/elegantwings
Summary: “No, wait,” Jaskier says, struggling with the blanket around him until he can prop himself up with one arm. “You can do that?” The hint of arousal rising on the air is impossible to miss, and Geralt is surprised, although he really shouldn’t be.“I can,” he admits, and although he’s not sure why, his own interest starts waking up in response as Jaskier licks his lips and leans closer. “If I have to, if the person is weak-minded,” Jaskier looks hurt for a moment, “Or willing, in your case.”“Good recovery,” Jaskier applauds with a hint of a smirk, “How come I’ve never seen you do it before?”“Don’t need to much, when you’re around,” he admits, and Jaskier looks pleased with himself. “People listen to you without a magic trick.”Jaskier tosses off the rest of the blanket, and in an instant, he’s pushed Geralt on his back and is straddling his lap. Only his reddened eyes give any hint that anything’s wrong. “I don’t believe you,” he challenges, leaning over Geralt, almost whispering.***Jaskier has an extremely bad day, and Geralt has an idea that might help.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 37
Kudos: 702
Collections: Abby's Witcher Collection





	when you move, I'm moved

**Author's Note:**

> As promised on twitter. Shout-out to everyone who encouraged me and convinced me that this wasn't nearly as dirty as it seemed in my mind. This means you, Marina [@regulardragon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/regulardragon). 
> 
> Title from Movement by Hozier. 
> 
> Thank you for reading! Comments and kudos are loved. If you feel like I missed a tag, please let me know. 
> 
> Also there is a plot in the beginning and the end, you have been warned.

Jaskier loses the competition.

He accepts the loss gracefully, more so than most of the other competitors. Of course, it probably helps that he comes in second place, and wins several smaller prizes for his compositions. But not the main prize, no, that goes to a recent graduate, someone that Jaskier doesn’t know and brushed off at first as no real threat. 

It is not lost on Geralt that the first time he makes it to one of these things, Jaskier doesn’t win. He’d been the reigning champion three years in a row, so naturally when Geralt decides to show up, he fails to defend the crown. Geralt feels like some sort of bad talisman, which is always true anyway, and thinks that maybe he should have listened to his gut and stayed away from Oxenfurt this year.

Of course, staying away from Oxenfurt meant staying away from Jaskier, traveling on his own for the first time in at least six months. The past spring, they met just as the ground began to thaw, and unlike previous years, they haven’t parted even once. Not when Geralt spent three weeks nearly living in the Vizima sewers, and not when Jaskier had an extended engagement to perform at some minor noble’s court. Geralt hates each and every banquet he’s ever attended, and he’s attended quite a few, this year, with Jaskier. 

There’s a party now that the competition has ended and all prizes have been given out. It’s being held at a tavern filled to bursting with musicians and performers and their fans and patrons. And of course, a good amount of people just looking to have a good time. Jaskier seems to know _everyone_ , but while he flits around the room, he returns the most often to a more intimate group of three. His two dearest friends, Priscilla and Essi, both musicians, both who won several prizes of their own this afternoon, and Geralt, who is left with the two while Jaskier mingles. 

At first, the two women look at him with identical unease, as Jaskier leads them to a table in the corner of the room slightly set aside from the main party. He instinctively chooses the spot Geralt would feel most comfortable, deposits the three of them, and then announces he’s thirsty and disappears. 

They look at him from across a table sticky with ale. There’s a tightness in Geralt’s chest, a few held breaths while the three examine each other. Geralt doesn’t _get_ scared, and he certainly doesn’t worry what a stranger thinks of him, and yet. By Jaskier’s own admission, these two are the closest thing Jaskier had to a family. So it _matters_ what they think of Geralt, and the realization makes his shoulders tense even further. 

Jaskier is standing a few meters away, and every once in a while his familiar laughter rises above the crowd. Only Geralt seems to realize the unhappiness that simmers under his skin.

“Master Witcher,” Priscilla says, folding her hands and leaning on them, “What is it exactly that brings you to Oxenfurt?” She doesn’t look frightened at all, and Geralt wonders briefly if there’s something in the water around here, or if Jaskier and his friends are just _like that_. 

“Just Geralt,” he grunts, and then imagines Jaskier saying something about his tone, and probably about his posture, too. He straightens slightly, and makes an effort to speak audibly. “And...I was here, for the show.” He winces when she and Essi exchange another look. 

“Honestly,” Essi says, conspiratorial, “I thought Jaskier made you up.” She giggles, and Priscilla looks caught, and their easy joy reminds him of Jaskier. Suddenly the friendship makes perfect sense. “You know,” she continues, “In school he had a new soulmate every week, he _proposed_ to Priscilla after graduation, when he was so drunk I’m not quite sure he remembers. Mind you, they’ve never even kissed.” Priscilla elbows Essi, and Essi shrugs. “You haven’t,” she says simply, and then looks at Geralt with a calculating eye. “ _You_ have, Geralt, haven’t you? Kissed him?” 

Geralt comes as close to blushing as he ever has been. The answer is _yes_ and _often since Jaskier practically jumped me this spring after a particularly close call_ but it doesn’t feel right to say, especially when Jaskier isn’t here. She takes his lack of response as confirmation, all the same, and a grin breaks out across her face. 

“You know, he’s talked about you non-stop since you saved his sorry arse when he tried to strike out on his own in Posada. I knew the White Wolf was real, obviously, but we just assumed you more tolerated Jaskier in small doses, like the rest of us.” Geralt doesn’t bother to point out that he’s only the White Wolf because Jaskier _made_ him the White Wolf. 

She and Priscilla both look less uncomfortable now, and Geralt tries to pretend he feels the same way. They start telling stories about Jaskier, stories that Geralt has heard before, although in their version, Jaskier is less of a flawless hero than he seems to think. Geralt already had a sneaking suspicion. And every once in a while, Jaskier comes back to their table for a few minutes, and a few times, he sits in Geralt’s lap and tips his head back against Geralt’s shoulder. He smells like wine, his breath sour with it and his voice starting to slur, and Geralt preses a hand into his hip as if he can hold Jaskier still for just a little while. 

Jaskiers fingers dig into his thigh, pressing in little bruises that threaten to heal as fast as they’re made. Geralt understands, and rubs his thumb behind Jaskier’s hip bone, where no one can see. Then Jaskier’s up and gone, pressing a dry kiss to Geralt’s cheek or forehead or lips before getting pulled away by another friend or colleague. Geralt longs to hold him back, safe in his arms. 

He stops pretending to listen to Essi and Priscilla, and watches Jaskier instead. He’s never anything but gracious about the loss, and in the few moments his orbit passes into that of the winner, he’s nothing but friendly, even offering sincere congratulations and offering a toast. “At least it wasn’t Valdo,” Priscilla says, and it’s clear she means it. “Valdo placed higher than Jaskier one time and Jaskier’s never let anyone hear the end of it.” 

Geralt sips the same ale, and waits until Jaskier starts to sway on his feet. Then, when Jaskier comes by the table again, he does hold fast when Jaskier tries to get back up. Jaskier squirms for a minute, as if he thinks he’s stuck, and then turns to frown at Geralt. “I told them I’d be right back,” he protests, and anyone could see it’s token. 

“I’m tired,” Geralt lies, and Jaskier’s shoulders slump in relief. He doesn’t protest any further when Geralt stands up and in the same fluid movement, hoists Jaskier up as well. “It was nice meeting you,” he says to Essi and Priscilla, and realizes that he means it very much. To their credit, they both look perfectly at ease with him now, and he looks forward to being forced into a few more meals with them before leaving Oxenfurt. 

Jaskier kisses both women on the cheek, and they make vague plans to meet up again the next day. Geralt has a feeling they will all be too hungover for that, but says nothing, and nudges Jaskier away from the table when the goodbyes drag on a little too long. 

When they walk outside, the air is cool, and Geralt can smell the salt water nearby. Drowners never make it this close to the university, but he listens for them anyway, or any other danger. Jaskier shoves his hands into his pockets and walks quickly towards his flat. A stranger might think he was hurrying because he was cold. And while Geralt could easily keep up, he stays a stride or two back, until Jaskier stops, turns around, and looks at him plainly. Geralt catches up to him then, and holds his hand while they finish their short walk in silence.

Jaskier all but slams the door closed, locking it with a heated flourish. He’s not saying anything yet, just stomping around and glaring at everything like it’s personally offended him. Geralt follows him to where he’s found a half-finished bottle of red wine in the kitchen. Jaskier chugs another quarter of it while Geralt watches and considers if he should try to stop him or ask for a turn. 

Jaskier lowers the bottle and takes a few deep breaths, mouth turned down, and for a moment Geralt thinks he might be sick. Then he recovers, dropping the bottle on the table and leaving the room. Geralt keeps following him, to the bedroom next, where Jaskier starts stripping and announces, “I want a bath.” 

It feels like a little bit of a challenge, which stuns Geralt for a moment. He should have taken the bottle before Jaskier could have even taken a sip, and maybe stopped him a few drinks before that. The truth is, with everything Jaskier does to make him more comfortable on the Path, Geralt is happy to fill a bath for Jaskier in the middle of the night. He’s happy to do anything he asks, especially when he’s so defeated, literally and figuratively. But Jaskier’s bratty tone makes Geralt want to say no and command him to go to bed.

They stand across from each other for a few moments, Jaskier fully naked and standing defiantly, hip cocked, while Geralt folds his arms and glares at him.

“Fine.” Geralt gives in, because he doesn’t really want to be fighting anyway, and heads for the bathroom. He takes a bucket and heads for the water pump outside and brings it back to the bathroom. It’s a familiar path by now, and it will take about three trips to fill the tub comfortably. That’s hardly any time at all, hardly any real effort. 

When he comes back from his first trip though, Jaskier is sitting on the edge of the bed, worrying the fabric under his hands. “Oh, you’re back,” he says, and bites his lip, “I thought maybe you’d go elsewhere for the night.”

Geralt tilts his head towards the bucket of water in his hands. 

“Right,” Jaskier nods, “I know. But I thought? Nevermind. Thank you, Geralt, but you don’t have to worry about it.” His cheeks are flushed, and the room isn’t warm exactly, but he’s still undressed. The alcohol must be keeping him warm for now. Geralt resists the urge to drape a blanket over him. 

“Don’t mind,” he says, and then finishes his task. When he comes back upstairs the third time, Jaskier follows him into the bathroom, and starts pulling out various oils and soaps. For a moment, he holds a transparent bottle full of a glittery blue powder that looks very much like magic.

“What’s that?” Geralt asks, and Jaskier nearly drops it and flushes an even deeper red. 

“This?” he squeaks, and clears his throat. “It’s uh, it’s just glitter. You know. To make you sparkly.” He shoves it back on the shelf. 

Geralt doesn’t know. He hums, and decides the water reaches an acceptable height in the tub. A few quick bursts of Igni have the water steaming at a nice temperature, and Jaskier settles on a few bottles. Geralt recognizes citrus and clove, the smells that turn subtle and hide under his skin, so Geralt has to breathe deep to find them. Or let Jaskier hold him, let that scent cover him enough that he almost doesn’t notice there’s anything else beyond it. 

Jaskier finishes adding things to the bath and then looks at Geralt expectantly. “Get in.” He even makes a little waving motion with his hands. 

“The bath is for you.” It’s barely big enough for Jaskier to sit in comfortably, and _maybe_ it could be comfortable if there was someone smaller - much smaller - than Geralt in there with him. But Jaskier is unmoved, and makes another little motion, so Geralt strips and gets in the water. He wishes he could make it just a little warmer, but he’s glad he doesn’t when Jaskier climbs in on top of him a moment later. “You’re ridiculous,” Geralt says as Jaskier sighs happily and leans into Geralt’s chest, his legs folded up and pressed against the side of the tub. His ass brushes Geralt’s soft cock, and he wiggles just a little bit in Geralt’s lap. 

Geralt squeezes his hip in warning. There’s no way, they’ll both end up on the floor, and then Jaskier will probably end up with a black eye or twisted ankle. Still, his cock stirs in interest, just a little, and Jaskier seems proud of himself and stills. 

At least the bath smells nice, and Jaskier makes no move to actually wash. All pretense out the window, his eyes are closed, and his breathing is starting to deepen and slow. Geralt lets him sleep for a few minutes, while he enjoys the feeling of Jaskier’s weight in his lap. For one, he couldn’t wake up Jaskier if he tried, and for another, he’s going to be waking up all night. Geralt can sense it by now, when Jaskier gets worked up about something, really worked up, or he’s drunk, or worse, tonight, both. 

Sure enough, he wakes up a few minutes later, as Geralt rubs a soapy cloth across his chest. The soap smells faintly of lavender, and Geralt hopes that it will encourage him to stay calm now, and to actually fall asleep when they get into bed. 

“You played well today,” Geralt says, and feels like a fool for not having said it sooner. It’s the kind of thing Jaskier would have known to say immediately. He’s always complimenting Geralt on how quickly he makes a kill, or the number of creatures he managed to slay at once, as if that’s something to celebrate. 

It’s apparently the wrong thing to say though, because Jaskier tenses up even more. “I was off,” he mutters, “I need to take better care of my voice. I need to _be_ better. I played like shit.” He seems to be talking to himself, chastising. 

“You came in second,” Geralt points out, and Jaskier huffs unhappily. “You’ve won plenty of times, in plenty of competitions. What’s the difference?” 

“The difference,” Jaskier snaps, “Is that I _don’t_ come in second. Except the once, which was clearly a fluke, because Valdo Marx is an evil mage bewitching people to think he’s good at _anything_.”

Geralt starts running his fingers through Jaskier’s hair gently, and Jaskier relaxes. “I’m doing it again, aren’t I?” he sighs, and tucks his head into Geralt’s neck. “I’m sorry. I should just be glad you’re here, with me, in my _home_ , meeting my very best friends. And I _am,_ I am.” 

“I’m glad I came,” Geralt says, and that’s the right thing, he can tell, because Jaskier makes a pleased noise and starts rambling about the people he’d met at the tavern that night. 

They don’t bother getting dressed when they get to the bedroom, and Jaskier slips immediately into bed and rolls over to face the wall. Geralt slips into bed behind him, pressing a kiss to the back of his head and then giving him space. He tries not to take it personally when Jaskier doesn’t try to hold him back. 

For the next few minutes, Jaskier grows more and more agitated, shifting and whining wordlessly every once in a while in irritation. Geralt hates it, and he’s sure Jaskier will assume he’s annoyed with him. He’s not annoyed, not with Jaskier anyway. Maybe with his own inability to give him what he needs. So he keeps his eyes closed and lies still, and lets Jaskier move around him. 

Jaskier groans loudly and flops on his front, wrapping the whole blanket over himself and burying his head under a pillow. “Stop pretending to be asleep,” he says, muffled, but Geralt can hear every word. 

“Not pretending,” Geralt says, opening his eyes, even though he knows Jaskier can’t see him. 

“Well you’re not sleeping,” Jaskier snaps, and Geralt isn’t sure if it’s an observation or a threat. Then Jaskier sighs again, a full body defeated exhale. “I can’t stop thinking about it.” He peeks his head out from under the pillow, and his eyes are red and wet. “You’re _here_ and I ruined it. I’ve probably ruined the whole night.” 

“You’re still drunk,” Geralt observes, forgetting for a moment that logic works only half the time when Jaskier’s actually sober. It sounds like a scold though, and even he can hear it before Jaskier’s face crumbles even further and he sniffles pathetically. 

“Fuck,” Geralt mutters, and gently removes the pillow away before Jaskier can hide beneath it again. “I mean, you’ll feel better in the morning.” He tries to gently brush the tears from his cheek, but it doesn’t stop a fresh wave from flowing in their place. There’s an idea, half-formed in the back of his mind, but he’s not sure. He thinks it might be too far, but it worked when he and his brothers did it to each other years ago, pushing away the misery for just a little while until they felt like they could bear it. 

“I can make you forget, for a little while,” Geralt offers, before he can talk himself out of it. “Just for tonight.” He thinks that if he keeps it simple, maybe, he won’t ruin it and make Jaskier think he’s trying to shut him up. Jaskier doesn’t say anything, looking at Geralt with an unreadable expression. “Nevermind,” Geralt grunts, “Forget I said anything.” Maybe, at least, this will make him turn his anger on Geralt instead of himself. 

“No, wait,” Jaskier says, struggling with the blanket around him until he can prop himself up with one arm. “You can do that?” The hint of arousal rising on the air is impossible to miss, and Geralt is surprised, although he really shouldn’t be. 

“I can,” he admits, and although he’s not sure why, his own interest starts waking up in response as Jaskier licks his lips and leans closer. “If I have to, if the person is weak-minded,” Jaskier looks hurt for a moment, “Or willing, in your case.” 

“Good recovery,” Jaskier applauds with a hint of a smirk, “How come I’ve never seen you do it before?” 

“Don’t need to much, when you’re around,” he admits, and Jaskier looks pleased with himself. “People listen to you without a magic trick.” 

Jaskier tosses off the rest of the blanket, and in an instant, he’s pushed Geralt on his back and is straddling his lap. Only his reddened eyes give any hint that anything’s wrong. “I don’t believe you,” he challenges, leaning over Geralt, almost whispering. Geralt can feel his half-hard cock starting to press into his thigh. “I think you should prove it.” 

Geralt’s brain starts to catch up, and he should have _known_ , he really should have. “Jaskier,” he warns, as he feels sharp teeth against his jaw, “It’s not a toy. I could hurt you.” 

“You could never hurt me, my darling,” Jaskier insists, kissing down his neck, one hand winding into Geralt’s hair while the other pets a scar just above Geralt’s hip that he knows is sensitive. He’s holding himself up with sheer force of will, apparently, until Geralt reaches out on instinct to hold his hips steady. 

“I could make you do whatever I wanted,” Geralt warns, or tries to, but Jaskier’s cock twitches a little more and he looks at Geralt, eyes flashing.

“I want that,” he says, so certain of himself, without a hint of apprehension or concern.Trusting Geralt. “Try it. Just try it. Tell me to do something, whatever you want.” 

Geralt considers the request, and Jaskier allows him, although he kisses everywhere he can reach, trying to distract him. Geralt could shut him up now, tell him to go to sleep and be done with it, and he’d technically be doing what Jaskier asked of him. Jaskier might not even remember in the morning, and it would never come up again. But, Geralt realizes, as another thrum of heat pools in his belly, he _wants_ to do it, too. Jaskier is so very easy to please in bed, and Geralt could do this in his sleep. 

“Sit up,” he instructs, and Jaskier scrambles up, planting himself firmly in Geralt’s lap, and waits, barely able to contain his excitement. “Promise you won’t fight it.”

“Never,” Jaskier swears, crossing his heart, and then for some reason, drawing a line over the seal of lips. “Swear on Melitele. You have my word, I’ll behave.”

“You won’t have much choice,” Geralt counters, and as Jaskier’s arousal flares higher, he traces a quick sign into the air. “You feel sober,” he says plainly, holding the spell only as long as it takes to work. 

For one horrible moment, Jaskier’s eyes glaze over, and then he shudders violently. “ _Fuck!_ ” he shouts, screwing up his face, “What the fuck, Geralt, that was so mean,” he complains, crossing his arms, but then he laughs suddenly. “It worked! Not what I had in mind, but I have to admit, it was unlike everything I’d ever felt before.” His expression turns excited. “Try something else!” 

Geralt rolls his eyes. Clearly Jaskier’s level of intoxication has nothing to do with his desire. “Fine, but,” he holds his hands up to trace the sign again, and Jaskier watches closely. “You’ll remember your own limits and stop me when you need to.” He’s not sure about the wording, exactly, but he’s learned that intent goes a long way when it comes to signs, so it’ll have to do. 

It’s left unsaid that Geralt will call the whole thing off the moment he thinks it’s gone too far.

A moment passes and Jaskier’s face is still and impassive again, and then the awareness returns to his eyes and he sits up straighter in Geralt’s lap. “I couldn’t describe it,” he announces, a little awed, “It’s like for a second, you’re completely in my head, and that’s it, nothing else.” 

Still, Geralt hesitates, looking up at Jaskier’s face for any sign of discomfort or displeasure. There’s still arousal in the air, true and real and coming from them both, but he’s not certain yet, not until Jaskier whispers, “Please.” 

This time when Geralt spells the sign, he doesn’t let it drop. He holds it in the back of his mind, ready to let go if necessary, and watches as Jaskier goes blank and boneless, barely holding himself up. “Kneel on the floor,” he instructs, and Jaskier gets up wordlessly, kneels on the floor wordlessly, and waits. Geralt doesn’t think he’s ever been this quiet, not even when their lives depended on it. 

He wishes Jaskier had told him what he wanted, first, but that’s not really the point of the game, is it? Geralt is standing in front of him, looking down at his eyes, pupils dilated wide, at his arms hanging at his sides. “How do you feel?” he asks, running a hand through Jaskier’s fringe. 

Jaskier leans in to the touch. “Good,” he breathes, eyelashes fluttering, and that’s all he says. 

“Good.” Geralt brushes his thumb over Jaskier’s soft lips, and when he presses in, those lips part readily. Geralt’s thumb presses against his tongue, just a little, just to feel the lack of resistance. “Suck,” he instructs, and Jaskier does. It sends a lightning bolt of need straight to his cock, and suddenly it’s too much, not enough. “Stop,” he says, “Suck my cock.” 

Jaskier leans forward immediately, mouthing over the leather with enthusiasm. It takes Geralt a moment to realize he wasn’t specific enough, and stops Jaskier again. “Sit,” he says, and then sits on the edge of the bed himself, running a hand through his hair. He thinks about letting the spell go. 

Although he hasn’t been told to, Jaskier pulls lazily on his cock a few times. The move is so _Jaskier_ that the rest of Geralt’s concern disappears. So he keeps holding the spell, and this time, he pulls off his trousers before commanding Jaskier to suck. 

Like this, Jaskier is enthusiastic as ever, but he lacks his normal finesse. Geralt finds himself saying things like, “Hold onto me,” and, “Don’t choke yourself,” and it should be uncomfortable, bring him out of the moment. But Jaskier does as he’s told, immediately adjusting per Geralt’s specifications. So Geralt starts to say things like, “Faster,” or, “Just like that,” and when he can’t help but mumble, “So good,” he’s sure that Jaskier whines just a little. 

“You’re being so good,” he tries, and Jaskier moans this time, a sweet sound that vibrates around his cock. His left hand digs into Geralt’s hip, leaving indents with his blunt fingernails, and his right hand, Geralt realizes, is working over his own cock again. He shouldn’t be able to give himself commands, especially not if they come this close to contradicting one of Geralt’s own. But he’s still under the spell, Geralt _knows_ the sign is still holding.

“Stop,” Geralt says, kind of a test, and kind of just because he wants to see Jaskier kneeling there with a cock stretching his mouth wide open, drool leaking from the corners of his mouth. Jaskier’s eyes flick up, heavy lidded, lashes wet, and there’s a plea there, and naked desire. Jaskier is still with him, even if he’s far away. 

He pulls himself out of Jaskier’s mouth, stilling Jaskier when he tries to follow with little kitten licks. “Get on the bed,” he says, and then adds, “Don’t come,” although he doesn’t try and stop him from doing anything else. He gets a bottle of oil from his pack, and sure enough when he turns around, Jaskier is fucking up into his own fist, eyes closed and mouth slack. 

Geralt kneels beside him on the bed, setting aside the oil, and stills Jaskier’s hand. “What are you thinking about?” he asks, and Jaskier tilts his head.

“Nothing,” he sighs, squeezing around himself, pre-cum spilling around his fingers and around Geralt’s. 

Geralt arranges them on the bed, and Jaskier moves pliantly, allowing Geralt to lay him out, to sit in between his legs and push one thigh up, using his free hand to hold it in place. He leaves his other hand to do whatever he wants, and what he obviously wants is to keep stroking himself, his cock dark red and straining hard. It must be torture, Geralt thinks.

“Tell me if something hurts,” Geralt instructs, and waits for Jaskier to agree between even breaths. He warms the oil between his fingers for a moment, and then presses gently inside Jaskier’s hole. He takes Geralt easily, relaxed immediately in the way he only gets after coming around Geralt’s cock at least once. Geralt has three fingers inside of him after only minutes, even though it’s been a few days since Geralt last opened him up. Still, he goes slow, careful, on alert for even the slightest noise of displeasure from Jaskier. Nothing comes. 

He slips a fourth finger in, and Jaskier moans low, clenching around him, hips lifting a little and then sliding back down. Geralt imagines letting his thumb follow, curling his hand into a fist right in that silky warmth and how Jaskier would let him, and keep making soft pleased noises. It’s a thought for another time, the next time, when he knows that Jaskier will want to do it again.

He’s pretty sure already that Jaskier will want to do this again. He wants to do this again, too. 

“How do you feel?” Geralt asks, in the same moment presses down on Jaskier’s prostate, just to see him struggle and fulfill the request. 

“Good,” Jaskier says, voice breaking, and Geralt thinks about holding him here, on the edge, for a little longer. Although his own cock is achingly hard, begging for attention, he can’t bring himself to pay it any mind. 

“Come for me, Jaskier,” he says, and breaks the spell as Jaskier tightens around his hand, vice-like, and wails. His back bows off the bed with the intensity of it, the surprise, losing his grip on his thigh and grabbing fistfuls of the sheets instead. Come splashes across his chest, up the column of his pretty neck, and Geralt resists the urge to lick it up. Instead, he fucks Jaskier steadily until the other man starts to come down and the aftershocks slow. Until Jaskier is a panting mess, eyes squeezed shut, and Geralt’s hand stills. 

“Melitele and all her saints,” Jaskier finally says, looking at Geralt with half-closed eyes. There’s a red bead of blood where he’s bitten his shiny, spit slick lips, and Geralt realizes he has done a great disservice to them both, not kissing him at all. “You’ve been holding out on me,” he accuses, and he tries to look annoyed, but he just looks so _good_. 

“ _Oh,_ ” Jaskier murmurs, looking straight at Geralt’s aching cock. “You aren’t finished. Are you not enjoying yourself?” he punctuates his question with a thrust downwards, already sure of his answer. 

“I like you better quiet,” Geralt decides, and carefully pulls his fingers out. Jaskier takes it as an invitation to thrust down again, like he intends to defy all laws of physics and their current position and get Geralt’s cock in him. “It’s late,” Geralt argues weakly, his traitorous hips already moving to meet Jaskier’s. His tip barely catches on Jaskier’s rim.

Jaskier’s eyes roll back and he gasps, taking just a scant few more centimeters. “Fuck yes, do it, fuck me.” 

Geralt groans, and has Jaskier’s thighs beside his ears in seconds. “Impossible,” he scolds, and Jaskier responds by thrusting down again, as much as he can, and Geralt meets him this time on purpose. He guides his cock in with the help of a little more oil and then leans down and finally, finally kisses him, filthy and deep, the way he should have ages ago. He sucks Jaskier’s lower lip into his mouth and worries the shallow cut, so that in the morning, Jaskier will feel it with his tongue and remember. 

“You know what you should do?” Jaskier asks between kisses, breathing a little faster now that Geralt is fucking him slow and deep. 

Geralt knows what he’s going to suggest, and he doesn’t wait, just raises his hand and casts the sign silently once more. He catches Jaskier with an arm around his waist before he can slump back against the sheets, and just barely manages to hold still while he waits for Jaskier to adjust. He cups his cheek and tilts his head to face him, looking deep into unfocused blue and black pools. “Kiss me,” he rumbles, and Jaskier makes a pleased noise and leans forward. 

The kisses grow messy quickly, as Geralt starts to fuck Jaskier again, harder now, more deliberate, and Jaskier starts making little fucked out moans into Geralt’s mouth. He’s breathing slow and steady again, heartbeat even. “Don’t fall asleep on me,” he says, and brushes his soft, wet cock. 

Jaskier’s heartbeat spikes. “It _hurts_ ,” he gasps, and Geralt is relieved and pleased that his failsafe worked. Arousal spikes in the air along with the smell of pain, though, and Geralt rolls his eyes. He’ll tease Jaskier about it later, when he’s present enough to get flustered, and Geralt will pretend he doesn’t know why Jaskier is so embarrassed. 

Really though, Geralt can’t say his cock has never gotten plain and pleasure a little muddled up. 

“Do you want me to stop?” he asks, and Jaskier’s eyebrows furrow as he comes up to awareness enough to consider the question. 

“Witcher,” Jaskier says, clenching down on Geralt’s cock, tighter suddenly than he’s been, “I told you, I want to do what you want me to do.” 

Geralt squeezes his cock and Jaskier cries out so sharp and sudden that Geralt is certain someone will soon be banging on the walls. He doesn’t tell Jaskier to be quiet. 

“Jaskier,” he murmurs, “I want you to get hard again, and I want you to be on the verge of coming, right on the edge, and stay there, until I tell you.” 

Jaskier starts to sob, tears mingling in with the drool running down his cheek as he thrashes against the bed. He starts to rock harder on Geralt’s cock, tensing and releasing while Geralt strips his cock and meets every thrust. He’s not going to last much longer, and he vaguely wishes for someone who could force _him_ to hold on just a little longer. 

“Come, Jaskier,” he commands, and this time he waits just a second, leaves Jaskier under just a moment more, and releases the spell. Jaskier tightens so quick and tight that Geralt helplessly follows into an orgasm that nearly blacks out his vision as he spends into Jaskier. 

Geralt realizes that Jaskier either passed out or immediately fell asleep, and he eases his cock out as gently as he can. Jaskier doesn’t stir, not even as Geralt wipes a damp cloth through the spend that’s drying all over his chest and belly, and dripping from his hole down his thighs. 

For a moment, Geralt considers using Axii again, just once more, so that Jaskier can sleep undisturbed until morning. But, even after all they’d just done, it feels like a violation, so he doesn’t. He climbs into the bed next to Jaskier and holds him close, and listens to him breathe for a little while.

***

Geralt doesn’t fall fully asleep in case Jaskier wakes and needs him. He falls into a meditation, where he can’t dwell on the look on Jaskier’s face when they called his name for second place. He doesn’t think about how powerless he is when it comes to the things that make Jaskier bloom bright like the flower he stole his name from. He knows nothing about music or poetry, and when he remembers some bit of nonsense that Jaskier mentioned off hand and that he barely understood, Jaskier would be so _happy_ and warm. For some reason he didn’t care that Geralt didn’t know how many liberal arts there were and what even a liberal art _was,_ he just wanted him to _see_ him and experience the things he loved. Things like warm tarts in the morning and spiced cider in late fall, indulgent things, things Geralt has no experience with. 

Jaskier makes him want to learn how to sleep in on a spring day with the windows wide open. To take long breaks by a river or a lake, to swim and then dry off side by side in the sun. To allow Jaskier to lead him into banquets and parties, to allow Jaskier to lead him anywhere at all. Geralt realizes that he won’t want to part ways with Jaskier this winter, and the desire doesn’t surprise him at all. 

He slowly comes out of meditation to the feel of Jaskier’s fingers tracing idle patterns in his chest hair. He opens his eyes slowly and when Jaskier notices, he smiles. His cheeks pink when their eyes meet. “I haven’t slept this well in weeks,” Jaskier says, a little rough between sleeping and shouting the night before. Geralt winces a little in his head, guilty, but Jaskier doesn’t seem to notice or care. “I think I’d like to do it again, sometime, not for a while but sometime, certainly, when we both decide it's time to experiment further.” 

Geralt has a feeling that the next time will be much sooner than Jaskier realizes, and doesn’t bother to hide his knowing smirk. Jaskier takes a fistful of the hair he was playing with and pulls, sticking his tongue out, and Geralt captures his mouth in a kiss. 

“I don’t know what I see in you,” he says primly when Geralt pulls back. Then he grows serious. “I’m sorry I behaved like such a child last night. I’m a bit of a sore loser, I’m afraid.” 

“You didn’t lose,” Geralt says again, and ignores the impulse to admit he’s known Jaskier for long enough to be intimately aware of his flaws. Or that he doesn’t mind indulging them. “And,” he hesitates, “I’ll just have to keep coming until you win.” 

“I’m very glad,” Jaskier says softly. “Last night, the uh, mind control thing helped.” He gestures a terribile imitation of the sign. It looks more like Dwarven sign language, and Geralt takes his hand and twists it until his fingers make the right shape.

“Could I ever do it?” Jaskier asks. Geralt kisses his knuckles and lets him go, but Jaskier holds fast and guides his hand to rest on his hip, covering it with his own. 

“Not without considerable pain and physical transformation,” he says lightly, and Jaskier squeezes his fingers. 

“I suppose we’ll manage somehow,” Jasker says, eyes sparkling, and convinces him to spend the rest of the day in bed all on his own. 

**Author's Note:**

> please visit me to yell into the void [twitter](https://twitter.com/tentaclebowtie)


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